Gewehr98
Sergeant
The Diary of Pte. Charles O'Connor
10 April 1809, 10 a.m.
Some damn fool and I got into an argument at a tavern in London; he said I spilled my drink on him, I said that I'd done him a favor. You should have seen the look on his face! Anyway, this man about town challenged me, a common nobody from Donegal, to a duel. Some chap named Fielding or something promised to serve as my second, and showed me the ropes of a dueling pistol. I know my way around a musket, thanks to my experience with poaching back in Ulster, but I can't say I've ever used a pistol before in my life.
This may be my final entry.
12 April 1809, 12 p.m.
Well, it seems I have the luck of the Irish after all. After a few missed shots on both our accounts, I was able to bring down the fool who challenged me to a duel. As it turns out, Fielding is some sort of damned spy; he was hunting the man I killed, as he was a leader of a band of duffers and thieves. He tasked me with finding out their location, and I managed to use enough of my meagre savings to convince 5 men at a London stable to help me find the blaggards. I tracked them down and watched as the horsemen cut the thieves to ribbons. One man was spared, and told us where we could find their hideout. I reported back to Fielding, and we marched forthwith to the hideout with a group of customs men in tow. After a pitched battle, we cleared the hideout.
I am glad to have been of some use to someone after all these years of living for myself, but I'll be damned if I stay around this Fielding character much longer; I don't trust him. For all I know, he could give my location away to my "friends" back in Donegal. I'd rather not face them again.
Oh, by the way, I should recount that these events happened yesterday, as this is the first time I've had time to sit down and write since then. As I was walking out of the tavern after getting a small reward from Fielding, I heard a man with a bright red uniform shouting about high wages and an exciting life in the King's army. I'm not one for patriotism, especially patriotism for the English, but the money sounded good so I took the King's Shilling. Unfortunately, that 23 quid I got as a bounty was eaten up when I paid for a uniform and a musket. Can you imagine that? Paying for your own damn musket? No wonder Napoleon is winning the war.
Anyway, I was assigned to an Irish regiment to my trepidation, and told to report to Sir Thomas Picton near Dublin forthwith. I didn't relish the thought of going home and being nearer to those who would want me dead, but I thought that there would be safety in numbers inside the army. I was told at the military depot that I would be trained as we marched, as the need for men was too great to keep any back in depot. I was given a pass to Sir Thomas's lines and instructed to head for Dublin immediately.
Right now, I am sleeping in a barn in Wales, waiting to catch the next ferry over to Ireland and my new life in the army. Maybe I'll make my mum and da proud of me after all, God rest their souls.
14 April 1809, 12 p.m.
I have arrived at Sir Thomas Picton's camp. It's a massive tent city sprawled across the Irish fields, with men in red coats marching, drilling, and relaxing. I present myself to the officer on duty and he assigns me to the 2nd Battalion of the 87th Regiment of Foot. Prince of Wales's, so they're called. I have made my way to the battalion's headquarters, and been drafted into the platoon led by a Serjeant Daly, who is apparently under the command of a Captain Cavanaugh, but I shouldn't concern myself with such matters. Daly seems hell-bent on marching us new men until our legs fall off, drilling us until we get dizzy from the maneuvers, and shouting until we go deaf. I'm already to start to chafe under army life.
14 April 1809, 7 p.m.
I killed a man today. It felt, different, than the man I had killed just four days before, when I was simply a man running from gambling debts. Not six hours after I started my official army career, Captain Cavanaugh informed Serjeant Daly that a band of brigands had been spotted nearby, and thought that some of us new boys could use a little "on the job training." I felt a little better off than the men who had never held a musket before, but I was still terrified. There were about 20 men against us, but our serjeant saw us through, and we mowed down the enemy without much ado. I was able to bring down one man who was attempting to stab one of the new recruits with a butcher knife. I didn't feel exhilarated or anything after I pulled the trigger, just the shock of the report, the kick of the musket, and the general din of the battle. I was too busy trying to stay alive to consider what I had just done. Only now, back at camp, can I replay the skirmish in my mind, and it almost seems the same as bringing down a deer; no remorse, no consideration that he was a man, just that shooting him meant that I had done my job for the day.
Well, the serjeant is screaming at us to fall in for one last round of drill before the Last Post, so I must be going. I shall write when I am able.
15 April 1809, 8 a.m.
After three hours of tedious drill, we were ordered to fall out and report to the paymaster. Finally! A living wage earned honestly. This might not be so bad, after all. The sum was only 10 shillings, but it's 10 more shillings than I had before. I just hope my shoes stay together until the next pay day, so I don't spend all my army wage on a visit to the regimental cobbler.
20 April 1809, 6 p.m.
We are camped outside Sheffield in Yorkshire; Sir Thomas is at a ball or some society nonsense inside the city. Daly has ordered me and three other men to dig the latrines for the battalion, but I suppose it's better than the flogging that Thomas Marrigale got for mouthing off to the serjeant during one of our damnable long marches. Daly, the bastard, calls us the sorriest lot of soldiers he's ever seen and uses his baton almost as much as he uses his lungs. It's a rare man that hasn't been beaten for some perceived failure of discipline, lack of speed, or simple mistake during drill. I try to bite my tongue, but he knows I don't like him, hence the latrine digging. I shall be at it most of the evening, so I should save my strength and close here.
22 April 1809, 6 p.m.
There will be no ****-hole digging for us tonight, as we have intercepted and destroyed a French raiding party near Cardiff. Some 40 French buggers thought they would ravage the countryside, but half the bloody Army came out to meet them, and it was over in minutes I only managed to fire off three rounds before it was said and done. It seems we captured some damn French marshal, who is being treated like a honored guest in Sir Thomas' quarters as we speak. No such luck for us, though, we're going to be sleeping in the rain if we can't get this damn tent up before long!
7 May 1809, 8 p.m.
We're on a boat, headed for the continent. I've never set foot on non-English soil, so I don't know what to expect. Some of the old-timers are getting a rise out of the new lads by telling stories of horrible, screaming death during battle and gunsmoke so thick you choke to death on it. Me, I'm just worried about running into a big battle so far from home. What happens if I get wounded? If I become an invalid like da?
Life on the ship, albeit brief, is not very nice. It smells with piss and ****e and vomit from seasickness, from body sweat and from lack of bathing. The food isn't great, but it isn't spoiled so I can count my blessings. The sailors seem weary and apathetic; one fellow I was talking to said he was at Trafalgar but now all he wants to do is crawl inside a glass of ale and drink himself to oblivion. After spending two days in this hell hole, I can't rightly blame him.
11 May 1809, 9 a.m.
Our trip to France was interrupted by foul weather, so we returned to Dublin, only to set out the next day. We were intercepted by a French patrol before we reached the channel, but we were able to beat them back. Our sailors do a devilish job of cutting up the Froggies; I was content to sit back with the rest of the section and pick off enemy sailors when the opportunity arose. I believe I killed or wounded several of them, but shrapnel from a grape shot caught me in the leg. I won't lose it, but I will be on the mend until we reach the mainland, the ship's doctor said. I just hope I can march when we make landfall.
12 May 1809, 11 a.m.
I am spending my one-month anniversary laid up in a tent outside Dublin. It seems Sir Thomas was not too eager to head to the mainland after the battle on the high seas, so he returned the army to Ireland to reform and recoup before battle is joined again. My leg is still stiff, and I'm exempt from duty for the time being, but I am anxious to get back into the fight. I don't like French devils so close to our shores; if they can invade England, what can they do to the Irish? The surgeon says I should be ready to return to duty in a matter of days, though I must admit not having that damn bastard Daly yelling at me for once. I suspect he will be kicking me my wounded shin before too long.
30 May, 1809, 10 a.m.
Word reached us this morning of a truce between England and France. I find it folly that we would let Bonaparte run havoc on the continent. I suspect the generals and lords must have something up their sleeve, and they needed to bide their time to allow them to get their house in order. Daly has been giving us extra drill in the last week, hence my lack of writing. My leg is finally back to snuff and I am trying to catch up with the rest of the boys on parade. I've only 9 pence to my name currently, after I finally saved up enough to pay a cobbler to fix my damn detestable shoes. They're a sight better than they were, but still uncomfortable as the devil. I suppose one soon gets used to discomfort in army life, though.
5 June 1809, 5 p.m.
More ceaseless drilling and patrols of the Emerald Isle for bandits, brigands, deserters, poachers, drunkards, blaggards, and the like. We must be doing a damn good job, because we haven't seen a one all month. Earlier this morning, Daly was assigned to recruit some new men in Galway; he came back with one poor sod and news that we had ceased fighting against the Dutch and the Confederacy of the Rhine. No wonder it was so hard to get anyone to take the King's Shilling. I hear talk of desertion, of going back to farms and taverns, but this is the first regular job I've had my whole life and if I spend the rest of my days walking around Ireland chasing after toss pots it will be an easy job indeed.
7 June 1809, 10 a.m.
We arrived in Cardiff early this morning, and Sir Thomas saw to it that any man who asked for a pass into town was granted one. Seeing as hostilities have mostly ceased, he allowed the men a bit of free time, but we've been ordered to avoid drunkenness or affray, otherwise we face a flogging. I was strolling down a quiet street in my civilian clothes at about 1 a.m. when I saw some lights on in what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. I crept inside, only to see that it was a prize fighting ring. I quickly assured the frightened promoter that I was no constable, and was invited to try my luck in the squared circle. I'm not unaccustomed to a good brawl, but I have been out of practice and the other lad damn near beat me to death. I was able to land a lucky right hook on his jaw, which dropped him like a sack of bricks. I shall have to avoid the serjeant while my bruises heal, but the eight shillings I won made the victory all the more sweet.
10 April 1809, 10 a.m.
Some damn fool and I got into an argument at a tavern in London; he said I spilled my drink on him, I said that I'd done him a favor. You should have seen the look on his face! Anyway, this man about town challenged me, a common nobody from Donegal, to a duel. Some chap named Fielding or something promised to serve as my second, and showed me the ropes of a dueling pistol. I know my way around a musket, thanks to my experience with poaching back in Ulster, but I can't say I've ever used a pistol before in my life.
This may be my final entry.
12 April 1809, 12 p.m.
Well, it seems I have the luck of the Irish after all. After a few missed shots on both our accounts, I was able to bring down the fool who challenged me to a duel. As it turns out, Fielding is some sort of damned spy; he was hunting the man I killed, as he was a leader of a band of duffers and thieves. He tasked me with finding out their location, and I managed to use enough of my meagre savings to convince 5 men at a London stable to help me find the blaggards. I tracked them down and watched as the horsemen cut the thieves to ribbons. One man was spared, and told us where we could find their hideout. I reported back to Fielding, and we marched forthwith to the hideout with a group of customs men in tow. After a pitched battle, we cleared the hideout.
I am glad to have been of some use to someone after all these years of living for myself, but I'll be damned if I stay around this Fielding character much longer; I don't trust him. For all I know, he could give my location away to my "friends" back in Donegal. I'd rather not face them again.
Oh, by the way, I should recount that these events happened yesterday, as this is the first time I've had time to sit down and write since then. As I was walking out of the tavern after getting a small reward from Fielding, I heard a man with a bright red uniform shouting about high wages and an exciting life in the King's army. I'm not one for patriotism, especially patriotism for the English, but the money sounded good so I took the King's Shilling. Unfortunately, that 23 quid I got as a bounty was eaten up when I paid for a uniform and a musket. Can you imagine that? Paying for your own damn musket? No wonder Napoleon is winning the war.
Anyway, I was assigned to an Irish regiment to my trepidation, and told to report to Sir Thomas Picton near Dublin forthwith. I didn't relish the thought of going home and being nearer to those who would want me dead, but I thought that there would be safety in numbers inside the army. I was told at the military depot that I would be trained as we marched, as the need for men was too great to keep any back in depot. I was given a pass to Sir Thomas's lines and instructed to head for Dublin immediately.
Right now, I am sleeping in a barn in Wales, waiting to catch the next ferry over to Ireland and my new life in the army. Maybe I'll make my mum and da proud of me after all, God rest their souls.
14 April 1809, 12 p.m.
I have arrived at Sir Thomas Picton's camp. It's a massive tent city sprawled across the Irish fields, with men in red coats marching, drilling, and relaxing. I present myself to the officer on duty and he assigns me to the 2nd Battalion of the 87th Regiment of Foot. Prince of Wales's, so they're called. I have made my way to the battalion's headquarters, and been drafted into the platoon led by a Serjeant Daly, who is apparently under the command of a Captain Cavanaugh, but I shouldn't concern myself with such matters. Daly seems hell-bent on marching us new men until our legs fall off, drilling us until we get dizzy from the maneuvers, and shouting until we go deaf. I'm already to start to chafe under army life.
14 April 1809, 7 p.m.
I killed a man today. It felt, different, than the man I had killed just four days before, when I was simply a man running from gambling debts. Not six hours after I started my official army career, Captain Cavanaugh informed Serjeant Daly that a band of brigands had been spotted nearby, and thought that some of us new boys could use a little "on the job training." I felt a little better off than the men who had never held a musket before, but I was still terrified. There were about 20 men against us, but our serjeant saw us through, and we mowed down the enemy without much ado. I was able to bring down one man who was attempting to stab one of the new recruits with a butcher knife. I didn't feel exhilarated or anything after I pulled the trigger, just the shock of the report, the kick of the musket, and the general din of the battle. I was too busy trying to stay alive to consider what I had just done. Only now, back at camp, can I replay the skirmish in my mind, and it almost seems the same as bringing down a deer; no remorse, no consideration that he was a man, just that shooting him meant that I had done my job for the day.
Well, the serjeant is screaming at us to fall in for one last round of drill before the Last Post, so I must be going. I shall write when I am able.
15 April 1809, 8 a.m.
After three hours of tedious drill, we were ordered to fall out and report to the paymaster. Finally! A living wage earned honestly. This might not be so bad, after all. The sum was only 10 shillings, but it's 10 more shillings than I had before. I just hope my shoes stay together until the next pay day, so I don't spend all my army wage on a visit to the regimental cobbler.
20 April 1809, 6 p.m.
We are camped outside Sheffield in Yorkshire; Sir Thomas is at a ball or some society nonsense inside the city. Daly has ordered me and three other men to dig the latrines for the battalion, but I suppose it's better than the flogging that Thomas Marrigale got for mouthing off to the serjeant during one of our damnable long marches. Daly, the bastard, calls us the sorriest lot of soldiers he's ever seen and uses his baton almost as much as he uses his lungs. It's a rare man that hasn't been beaten for some perceived failure of discipline, lack of speed, or simple mistake during drill. I try to bite my tongue, but he knows I don't like him, hence the latrine digging. I shall be at it most of the evening, so I should save my strength and close here.
22 April 1809, 6 p.m.
There will be no ****-hole digging for us tonight, as we have intercepted and destroyed a French raiding party near Cardiff. Some 40 French buggers thought they would ravage the countryside, but half the bloody Army came out to meet them, and it was over in minutes I only managed to fire off three rounds before it was said and done. It seems we captured some damn French marshal, who is being treated like a honored guest in Sir Thomas' quarters as we speak. No such luck for us, though, we're going to be sleeping in the rain if we can't get this damn tent up before long!
7 May 1809, 8 p.m.
We're on a boat, headed for the continent. I've never set foot on non-English soil, so I don't know what to expect. Some of the old-timers are getting a rise out of the new lads by telling stories of horrible, screaming death during battle and gunsmoke so thick you choke to death on it. Me, I'm just worried about running into a big battle so far from home. What happens if I get wounded? If I become an invalid like da?
Life on the ship, albeit brief, is not very nice. It smells with piss and ****e and vomit from seasickness, from body sweat and from lack of bathing. The food isn't great, but it isn't spoiled so I can count my blessings. The sailors seem weary and apathetic; one fellow I was talking to said he was at Trafalgar but now all he wants to do is crawl inside a glass of ale and drink himself to oblivion. After spending two days in this hell hole, I can't rightly blame him.
11 May 1809, 9 a.m.
Our trip to France was interrupted by foul weather, so we returned to Dublin, only to set out the next day. We were intercepted by a French patrol before we reached the channel, but we were able to beat them back. Our sailors do a devilish job of cutting up the Froggies; I was content to sit back with the rest of the section and pick off enemy sailors when the opportunity arose. I believe I killed or wounded several of them, but shrapnel from a grape shot caught me in the leg. I won't lose it, but I will be on the mend until we reach the mainland, the ship's doctor said. I just hope I can march when we make landfall.
12 May 1809, 11 a.m.
I am spending my one-month anniversary laid up in a tent outside Dublin. It seems Sir Thomas was not too eager to head to the mainland after the battle on the high seas, so he returned the army to Ireland to reform and recoup before battle is joined again. My leg is still stiff, and I'm exempt from duty for the time being, but I am anxious to get back into the fight. I don't like French devils so close to our shores; if they can invade England, what can they do to the Irish? The surgeon says I should be ready to return to duty in a matter of days, though I must admit not having that damn bastard Daly yelling at me for once. I suspect he will be kicking me my wounded shin before too long.
30 May, 1809, 10 a.m.
Word reached us this morning of a truce between England and France. I find it folly that we would let Bonaparte run havoc on the continent. I suspect the generals and lords must have something up their sleeve, and they needed to bide their time to allow them to get their house in order. Daly has been giving us extra drill in the last week, hence my lack of writing. My leg is finally back to snuff and I am trying to catch up with the rest of the boys on parade. I've only 9 pence to my name currently, after I finally saved up enough to pay a cobbler to fix my damn detestable shoes. They're a sight better than they were, but still uncomfortable as the devil. I suppose one soon gets used to discomfort in army life, though.
5 June 1809, 5 p.m.
More ceaseless drilling and patrols of the Emerald Isle for bandits, brigands, deserters, poachers, drunkards, blaggards, and the like. We must be doing a damn good job, because we haven't seen a one all month. Earlier this morning, Daly was assigned to recruit some new men in Galway; he came back with one poor sod and news that we had ceased fighting against the Dutch and the Confederacy of the Rhine. No wonder it was so hard to get anyone to take the King's Shilling. I hear talk of desertion, of going back to farms and taverns, but this is the first regular job I've had my whole life and if I spend the rest of my days walking around Ireland chasing after toss pots it will be an easy job indeed.
7 June 1809, 10 a.m.
We arrived in Cardiff early this morning, and Sir Thomas saw to it that any man who asked for a pass into town was granted one. Seeing as hostilities have mostly ceased, he allowed the men a bit of free time, but we've been ordered to avoid drunkenness or affray, otherwise we face a flogging. I was strolling down a quiet street in my civilian clothes at about 1 a.m. when I saw some lights on in what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. I crept inside, only to see that it was a prize fighting ring. I quickly assured the frightened promoter that I was no constable, and was invited to try my luck in the squared circle. I'm not unaccustomed to a good brawl, but I have been out of practice and the other lad damn near beat me to death. I was able to land a lucky right hook on his jaw, which dropped him like a sack of bricks. I shall have to avoid the serjeant while my bruises heal, but the eight shillings I won made the victory all the more sweet.
